


A Need to Feel Useful

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Greg Lestrade is a sex beast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pouting like a bloody teenager. This lip of yours." He licks the lip in question, sucks it into his mouth. "All jutted out, just asking for it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Need to Feel Useful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



Here he comes, big swirl of the coat, clothes beneath it too tight, too sheer, too shiny, too. . .everything. . .like he has a right to come in uninvited, unasked, and of course despite any protest Greg might put up against it,  _of course_  Sherlock has. If not a right, at least an implicit invitation. But today the swirl of the coat is the huffy one. Sherlock is frowning, pouting, breath huffing as if he is  _just disgusted_ , it's all  _too much_ , it's all  _so stupid_. Sherlock is the most put-upon Kept Boy there ever was. Clearly. His terribly easy life is just  _so difficult_.

"Morning, Sunshine," Greg offers, a bit jolly just to get a rise out of Sherlock, who slumps into a chair opposite Greg's desk, utterly despondent just long enough to sigh, then jolts up again and begins his 33RPM pacing (if he gets to 78, he's either solved it or his sugar is crashing--sometimes both).

"Why would you--" he starts, then stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Don't call me that."

"Come in here with that cloud over your head, that's exactly what I'm calling you," Greg says. "What can I do for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stops pacing, squares himself to Greg and the look in his eyes is vaguely despairing, wholly needy. "I need to feel useful," he enunciates.

"Shut the door," Greg demands. Then, lower, no risk of being overheard, tenderly, "Sunshine."

Sherlock scowls but his cheeks flush pink to give him away, and he does as he's told. He flips the blinds shut, too, without being told. By the time he turns back around, Greg has stepped around his desk, and they are nearly chest to chest. Sherlock shrugs off his coat and drops it over the back of the chair he'd first sat in. Greg reaches for the button on Sherlock's suit jacket and slides it free, then slips his hands onto Sherlock's shoulders, urging its removal. As Sherlock slips it off, Greg moves to the undone top buttons of Sherlock's shirt and presses his hands inside Sherlock's collar to caress his long neck, clasp his jaw, draw him forward. Greg's kiss is far from sweet; he is asserting his claim. Sherlock gives way beneath it, melts like butter.

"Useful?" Greg mutters against Sherlock's slick mouth. "Or  _used_?"

Sherlock lets out a throaty whimper.

"Coming in here with that face," Greg intones, and his teeth clamp down briefly on Sherlock's lower lip, pull and release. "Pouting like a bloody teenager. This lip of yours." He licks the lip in question, sucks it into his mouth. "All jutted out, just asking for it."

Sherlock's hands are scrabbling with Greg's belt buckle, and he is nodding as Greg's two-day stubble burns the tender skin around his mouth.

"I'll put it to use, all right," Greg rumbles, and his teeth sink and scrape against Sherlock's neck just below his ear. "You want me to  _use_  it? Use this obscene mouth of yours?" He thrusts his tongue in, sweeping against Sherlock's tongue, not waiting for a reply, and comes away panting. "Is that what you want?"

Sherlock nods vigorously, and he has gotten Greg's belt open, long fingers now fumbling with the fasteners, and one palm slides down, feels Greg's half-hard cock straining beneath his fly. Sherlock rubs lightly through the fabric, feels Greg respond to his touch.

"You want me to put you on your knees, Sunshine? You want me to stuff your mouth full of my prick?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathes, and he maneuvers his face to offer his mouth to Greg again, and Greg hooks his thumb in the corner of Sherlock's mouth and presses and tugs, handling him roughly, making Sherlock's eyes close and his hands still momentarily.

All at once, Greg's hand is on his shoulder, pressing down, and Sherlock folds willingly onto his knees on the floor. He makes quick work of opening Greg's trousers and they slide halfway down his thighs, caught by his wide-planted legs. Greg's hand strokes quickly down the side of Sherlock's face and he grasps Sherlock's chin, shakes him a bit. "You're going to use that bratty mouth on my cock, Sunshine, get it good and hard--you're so clever, I know it won't take you long--and then you're going to open up so I can fuck your mouth. Is that what you need? Will that make you feel useful?"

"Yes. Please." Sherlock licks his lips and they shine with too much left-behind saliva. Greg lets out a groan.

"Get at it then," Greg commands, and Sherlock braces himself with one hand on Greg's thigh, his thumb rolling back and forth over the hair there. His other hand grips Greg's nearly-full prick at the base, and then his slippery lips and tongue are sliding, gliding, swirling down one side of Greg's shaft, then back up along the underside, tongue flattening to feel the ridge of vein there. A leisurely roll of the tongue around the reddened head, and Sherlock pauses just long enough to coax back Greg's foreskin with finger and thumb, gathering spit in his mouth so that it dribbles out the corners a bit, then resuming his work, licking and sucking his way down the other side of Greg's length

"Well done, you. Well done," Greg encourages. "Feel how hard you make me. Look at how swollen my prick is, getting ready to fuck that gorgeous mouth of yours."

Sherlock hums agreement, works his way back to the crown of Greg's prick and gamely wraps his wet lips around it, presses his tongue beneath, and sucks and sucks so that Greg grunts and tangles fingers in Sherlock's hair. He tugs Sherlock's head back a bit. "Open up now, Sunshine," he growls, low and quiet. "Open up that dirty mouth. Open that long, lovely throat of yours so I can fuck it."

Sherlock's upper lip and chin are wet with his own saliva mixed with a bit of sticky pre-cum, and he seals his mouth in an "O" around Greg's prick again, minds his teeth, and shifts his knees backward, tilts his whole torso to lengthen his spine, his neck, his throat. He braces himself with both hands on Greg's hips, not to push him away, only to keep his balance. He moans around Greg's cock and Greg slides forward relentlessly, so deep into Sherlock's willing mouth, and holds him there by the hair. Tears well up and spill out of the corners of Sherlock's closed eyes. Greg rears back, just as deliberately as he went in, and Sherlock sucks air in through his nostrils.

"Oh, good lad, Sunshine. You're a perfect little fuck toy. So pretty, crying for more of my prick down your throat." Sherlock lets out a high pitched whimper and Greg responds by shoving his hips forward, banging the head of his cock against the back of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's fingers sink hard into the creases between hip and thigh, and his eyes go on weeping, but he doesn't fight it. Greg jerks his hips back, Sherlock breathes, and Greg thrusts in again, this time three times in quick succession, guiding Sherlock forward by the hand in his hair.

"I'm going to fuck you hard now, Sunshine," Greg rumbles, "And you're going to be good and take it." He rocks back so Sherlock can get his breath, and Sherlock nods just slightly, circles his tongue anti-clockwise around the crown of Greg's cock, moaning a bit as he does. "If you can keep up, I'll come all over your pretty face."

Sherlock whimpers, and one hand leaves Greg's thigh long enough to palm his erection through his trousers, desperately.

"Gonna come in your pants, you dirty thing?" Greg asks, and Sherlock wriggles his pelvis, returns his hand to Greg's hip. "Go ahead. Show me how much you like it when I fuck your filthy, pretty mouth."

And then all at once he is fucking Sherlock's mouth with strong, juttering thrusts, steadying his head with his palm against the back of Sherlock's skull, his other hand beneath his chin, gripping his jaw, angling his face just so. "Yeah," he grunts, "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." And Sherlock's tears are streaming, and he is holding his breath, now and then managing a sip of air when Greg pulls back only to jam his prick forward again. "I should come right down your throat," Greg sputters. "Coming in here in a snit. Wanting to be used. I'll fucking use you, all right. . ." He thrusts and thrusts and Sherlock suddenly shudders and jumps, his body shivering, and he groans deep in his sore throat. Sherlock’s orgasm tips Greg over the edge and he grunts, "Oh,  _fuck_!"

Greg backs off, fists his cock, and Sherlock kneels there on the office floor with sweat on his forehead and upper lip, shoulders limp, wet spot growing across the lap of his trousers, and Greg comes in hot spurts across his open lips, the tip of his pink tongue, the stubble-burned cheek.

Greg stumbles back into the chair holding Sherlock's coat, catching his breath, tucking himself away and fastening his trousers. He looks at Sherlock, a weeping heap on the floor, leans forward to fetch some tissues from a box on his desk and  then pats his knee. He says, tenderly now, "Come on then. Up you get." Sherlock looks at him then, eyes soft and wide, and he moves like an animated rag doll to arrange himself across Greg's lap. Greg wipes his face clean with the tissues, though Sherlock's tongue darts out to swipe some of Greg's cum into his mouth before Greg gets to it.

"You dirty thing," Greg chides, but he is teasing, fond. He uses a fresh tissue to wipe away the streaks of tears that were forced from Sherlock's eyes. "Pretty thing. All right?" he asks, and it is low and kind, and he runs one hand softly up and down Sherlock's back.

Sherlock nods, looks sleepy and euphoric. Greg has seen a similar expression on him before; he finds he likes it much better now.

"You can call me that," Sherlock rumbles against the hollow of Greg's neck. "If you want to."

"Might do," Greg says gently. "Might just do that." He kisses Sherlock's hair, and they sit there for several quiet minutes, until Greg must open the blinds and the office door and get back to work.


End file.
